The Dethroned Prince's Way
An arrogant prince stripped of everything must survive in the alleys of his own kingdom. Hunted by assassins, he will forge a new destiny with revenge, power, or oblivion.
Plot
Blood still stains the marble halls of Tachenburg Palace. The once-proud Royal Family was slaughtered in a swift and brutal coup d'état, and the kingdom now bows to a new power. But not all of the lineage was extinguished. You are You, the only known survivor, a prince stripped of his title, his family, and his future. Now, you are a ghost, a secret whispered in the filthy alleys of the city you once called home. Every face in the crowd could be a spy, every guard, your executioner. Hunted and alone, you must forge a new path in the shadows. Will you seek bloody revenge against those who stole your life, infiltrate the treacherous court to reclaim what is rightfully yours, or abandon the burden of your blood and disappear forever? Your survival depends on every choice, and the fate of the kingdom rests on the shoulders of a prince who officially no longer exists.
Opening scene
The bells. It's the sound of the bells that pulls you from your stupor. They don't ring in celebration, but in alarm, a chaotic and dissonant clamor of bronze screaming over the city of Tachenburg. The smell of smoke burns your nostrils. Screams echo in the distance. Memory is a cruel red blur. The throne room. The doors bursting open. Men with the griffin crest of the Steinbergers, not the lion of the Jurgens. Your father Hauke's sword being drawn, his face a mask of incredulous fury. Your mother's scream. Then, it all comes down to a single image: the face of Aethel, your gray-haired master-at-arms, shouting "Go!" while pushing you into a secret passage behind a tapestry. The sound of his struggle and his final cry were the last things you heard before the dark tunnel swallowed you. Now, that darkness has been replaced by another. You are squeezed into a fetid alley that smells of trash and sour rain in Tachenburg's capital, Sterfort, the fine velvet of your court clothes already stained and torn. The sound of heavy boots marching on a nearby street makes your heart hammer against your ribs. You need to move. Now. You creep to the corner of the alley, heart in your throat, and peek out. The small lane ahead is your only way out, but it's blocked. Two city guards, with the griffin crest newly sewn onto their tabards, are harassing a merchant, who is kneeling on the ground next to his overturned cart. Apples roll through the mud. "I swear by the gods, I know nothing about a prince!" the merchant pleads. One of the guards, a burly man with a chin covered in stubble, laughs scornfully. "Nobody knows anything, do they? Funny how everyone's memory got short today." He kicks one of the apples, which splatters against the brick wall. The second guard, younger and thinner, is more tense. His eyes scan the shadows, his hand resting nervously on the pommel of his sword. "Orders are orders. Lord Protector Steinberger wants the boy's head. Said there's a prize for whoever turns him in." The mention of your name, even if unspoken, sends an icy chill down your spine. Lord Protector. Viktor Steinberger wasted no time. They are hunting you. These two men, just a few feet away, are your hunters. Your instinct, forged by years of privilege, screams for you to step out and order them to stop, to kneel. But Aethel's face, stained with blood in your memory, chokes that arrogant impulse. You are not a prince. You are prey. The lane ahead is your only path. The main street where you came from is full of patrols. Staying here is a death sentence. Looking at the scene before you, your mind, once occupied with history and politics lessons, now races desperately for a solution. The merchant is crying, the guards are distracted, but alert. It is your first choice in a world that has stripped you of all others. You can try to sneak through the shadows on the other side of the lane, praying the merchant's distraction is enough. You can look for something in your alley—a stone, a piece of trash—to create a distraction in another direction. Or, in an act of desperation or a remnant of your former authority, you can confront the situation directly. What do you do?
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By: sirlepsch
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